


Gifts

by kcscribbler



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24744598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: Five times Jim and Spock gave each other something, and one time it wasn't necessary. Early-era TOS.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Spock
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> This was written looooooong ago for, of all things, a DeviantArt competition, lol. I have no artistic ability but words are art, yes?




The first time he is summoned to the new captain's quarters, he spends an extra moment to ensure he is spotlessly presentable; the only possible reason for a commanding officer to summon a crewman thus is for a private reprimand. Though he has no idea what he might have done to warrant one, he does not know James Kirk well enough to read his wishes yet and it is likely he has unwittingly committed what the human views as a cold-hearted action. He was informed repeatedly by Captain Pike that his methods of correction and requiring work from his subordinates were far too exacting for humans, and that he was too callous in his delivery of instruction and chastisement.

He never has, and still has not, a desire to inflict unnecessary pain on any crewman; the very idea is abhorrent. However, while Pike had been an exemplary commander, he was a very poor instructor; and though Spock had attempted to emulate his example in command with his Science subordinates, without proper instruction he could only go so far in learning to interact with humans.

As a result, he had found himself somewhat isolated, which was not entirely unwelcome, never fraternizing with the crew so that they would not feel threatened or frightened by his presence. And now, with the exception of Montgomery Scott and a few of the older Science personnel, no one aboard knows him and therefore expects only pure Vulcan from him. He accomplishes his work and more so, and expects the same of his subordinates, nothing more.

But he is aware that humans sometimes view his complete logic as offensive for some reason, and though he cannot change facts he knows he can easily be misunderstood. No doubt this new captain, personable and sociable to the point of almost being hyperactive, wishes him to make more of an effort.

Very well, he muses now as he stands before the door of Kirk's quarters, he will do what is expected of him, if possible. If it is not possible to work with the man, then he will simply request a transfer; no ship in the 'Fleet will turn down a Vulcan Science Officer.

He gives a final tug to his tunic and then requests entry.

The door opens at once, and he steps inside, standing at attention. He is expecting Kirk to be seated at his desk, PADD in hand, but to his surprise the human is sprawled across his bed on his stomach and elbows, poring over an antique volume of literature.

Kirk glances up when he enters, offers his raised eyebrow a lopsided smile, and then scrambles off the bed after marking his place with a nearby bookmark. The human tucks the volume lovingly under one arm and then enters the sitting area, waving him to the chair across from his desk.

He sits, somewhat mystified by the familiarity; his original supposition that a reprimand is in order seems somewhat unjustified. Kirk more flops than sits into the chair across from him, though he notes with mild amusement that after glancing at his rigid posture the captain reluctantly straightens himself into proper attention.

However, the antique volume which the human sets carefully on the table beside them is such a rare novelty that it distracts his attention momentarily. Kirk notices, and with a smile pushes it across the desk.

"I have a weakness for real books," he says cheerfully, indicating the faded leather and crisp pages. "There's nothing like the smell of paper and ink…" the man trails off, blushes slightly as if embarrassed, and Spock glances tactfully from the human's face back to the volume. “I am aware there were terrible practices in place to produce them centuries ago, but I would like to hope my care for them now in some way helps to preserve the legacy of the trees involved.”

It is not for Spock to debate the morals of ancestral humanity’s barbaric attitudes toward their global climate, and he ignores that portion of the conversation. " _Great Expectations_ ," he reads the title aloud, and touches the volume with a careful hand. It is a highly apposite story for the man, if half of what he has heard of James T. Kirk is true. "Dickens' works are still taught as classical Earth literature on Vulcan."

Kirk cocks an interested eye at him. "Really?"

"Indeed," he nods, returning the book to the human. "I find his works vastly different from traditional Vulcan literature. It is…refreshing, at times."

"In other words, you like his stuff," Kirk rephrases with an impish grin.

He raises an eyebrow. "Vulcans do not like or dislike, Captain. I merely note the differences."

"So you're saying that change, sometimes, can be…tolerable, possibly even pleasant?" the human presses, with a curious expression on his face.

He mulls this philosophy for a moment, and decides it is true, and therefore there is no harm in admitting the fact. "Affirmative, Captain."

Kirk leans back in his chair, smiling warmly. "Good, Mr. Spock…very good. I've been worried about changing command style left, right, and center; good to know I have your support at least. Now," the man adds with a slight smirk as he opens his mouth to protest he never said any such thing, "I have a request to make of you."

Sighing is a human action, and therefore he does not. "Of course, Captain."

Kirk pulls up a PADD and indicates a list of names. "I'd like to move Hikaru Sulu from Sciences to Command," he states directly. "I think he has excellent command potential, and he's a top-of-the-'Fleet navigator. He'd be more useful to me on the Bridge than in the Xenobotany labs."

He accepts this, analyzes it, and decides Kirk is correct. Besides, even if he were not, the captain's orders are orders.

It finally registers that the man is looking expectantly at him, and he glances back, puzzled. "I agree with your categorization of his abilities, Captain."

"Yes, yes, good. Now…may I move him?"

He blinks in surprise, for the request is unnecessary; if the Captain wishes to move personnel he has the power to move them without informing the department heads of more than the date of roster change. "Sir?"

Kirk waves an impatient hand. "Mr. Spock, I'm not going to just yank one of your protégés without your permission," he informs, apparently quite seriously. "I hardly think it's fair to move one of your best men if you're not for the change."

He realizes that he is unaccountably staring at the human, and that Kirk is growing uneasy under his mystified gaze. "You do not need my permission, Captain, to distribute personnel how you see fit."

"Of course I don't," Kirk answers cheerfully, though his gaze has sobered slightly as he looks at his First, "but I know how hard you work to keep good relations with your crewmen, and I don't want to disturb your department after you've worked for so long to build a working relationship with your people."

That floors him, to use a human idiom, for he had no idea the young man was so perceptive to have noticed how difficult it was for him to maintain what humans called a "friendly working relationship" with his personnel. This man is full of surprises, one of them being the ability to pick up on small details which no one in his experience ever had with him.

Fascinating.

"I am amenable to the change, Captain," he finally speaks, accepting the gift in the spirit in which it is given. "I believe the Ensign would do well to be promoted and placed on the Bridge for command training."

"You sure?"

He only looks pointedly at the human, and Kirk nods his head with a rueful smile. "Right…Vulcans don't say things they don't mean. Got it." The man grins. "Thank you, Mr. Spock. We're due to pick up a new assortment of personnel in three months from Starbase Seventeen; I'll let you pick whoever you'd like to replace him."

"That would be agreeable, Captain."

"Excellent!" The pleasure on the human's face is startling, as he has no idea why the young man would be so; if anything, he should be the one flattered by the oddity of a commanding officer requesting his subordinate's permission. Very few captains would care so about their subordinates' awkward social skills.

Perhaps, as Kirk had earlier twisted his words to mean, change could be refreshing, even pleasing…




The second time, he remembers vividly for personal reasons, and the crew simply for the novelty factor.

Captain Pike had been an exemplary officer. His loyalty to his crew and Starfleet had never been questioned. His relationships with his crew were impersonal by choice, and thus none ever approached him, emotionally or physically, unless necessary. Spock himself was the most notable leader in this amicable ostracization, keeping his distance (and more) and, frankly, preferring that state of affairs.

Then Captain James T. Kirk had whirlwinded onto the _Enterprise_ , scattering all preconceptions of command style in a dynamo of charismatic charm. The crew never quite knew what hit them. But now, four months into their five-year mission, the new captain has broken his first major Starfleet regulation; saved seventeen crewmen in doing so, but nonetheless has broken it.

The Admiralty evidently has decided to chastise their poster boy in full view of the Bridge crew, as a lesson to the brashness of youth. Unwise, in Spock’s opinion, and highly ineffective, but he is not a part of the bureaucracy and as such retains his silence.

He does not admit that he is quite curious to see this impetuous young captain's reaction to a public censure.

Kirk stands now, silent but with those oddly compelling hazel eyes flashing defiance and a refusal to promise to never repeat his actions, not if they would save his crew. The young human certainly has nerve, even if his usual diplomatic tact seems to have fled in the face of an irate board of admirals.

Sixty seconds into the tirade, Spock has heard quite enough, and though he can do next to nothing about what is happening that does not dictate that he must stand by silently and approve by virtue of his silence. Kirk had made the correct decision, and while it had been unorthodox it had been the correct, moral, and logical course of action – regulation or no. And he is quite grateful for the human's being willing to do the right thing rather than what the laws of their Starfleet dictates, this once at least.

He vaguely hears or senses jaws dropping around the Bridge as he rises from his chair and moves with fluid grace down the step into the command chair area, taking up a position half-behind his captain, their opposing shoulders nearly touching at the close proximity; but he does not mind that the crew is seeing him go to a human's defense in so public a manner. He would never have done so for Captain Pike; but then the former captain had never gone out of his way to attempt a companionship – possibly even a friendship, strange though the concept is – with him. Kirk is an exceptional commander, and has become a respected colleague in addition to being quite pleasant, undemanding company.

The human does not deserve to be so chastised in front of his subordinates, and while his disapproval may not carry much weight, he gives it anyway with his silent and forbidding presence close behind Kirk in the center of the Bridge. He is not above pressing any advantage he has, and he is not the only Vulcan ranking officer in the ‘Fleet for naught.

He says nothing, face not quite visible to the Admiralty due to the screen angle but his presence – and opinion on the matter – unmistakable. Kirk does not move, but some of the crimson leaves his countenance in a visible expression of grateful relief.

The Admiral's tone loses a bit of its edge, subsiding into a stern growl rather than a tirade, and finishes with a curt warning to not repeat the offense on pain of losing the captain's commission, even at the expense of seventeen crewmen's lives.

The screen then goes blank, and he is aware of the crew eyeing their new leader for his reaction.

Starfleet's youngest captain glares at the starry screen for a moment, possibly weighing the consequences of his past and present actions and wondering if he has been or will be found wanting, and by whom.

Finally, "No promises," he mutters loudly enough for the Bridge to hear, and plops himself back into his chair with a decisive _thwock_. "Maintain course, helmsman."

His crew exchanges amused and respectful glances behind his back, and while it is unprofessional Spock agrees with them; not every captain in the 'Fleet, especially the _Shooting Star of the Academy_ as Kirk has been called recently in a news clip, would accept such a rebuke without choice language before or after the communication had been cut – nor would every captain have stuck by his beliefs despite the higher-ups' opinions of rules and regulations.

And definitely, no other captain that he knew of has won himself the support of the most brilliant and least sociable species in the known galaxy. He already holds more respect for this unique human than he held for his previous captain, though he will never admit to such high regard – especially since he is at a loss to properly explain the reasons behind his mental inclinations.

Kirk seems aware of his inner turmoil, for the human glances up to where he is still standing just beside and behind the command chair. "Thanks for the moral support, by the way, Mr. Spock," Kirk says easily but in a quiet undertone, for he knows better than to make a public display (for which Spock is both devoutly grateful, and duly impressed by). "It was a very…human thing to do, and I appreciate your sacrifice of your personal space."

"My 'sacrifice', as you so term it, Captain, was completely merited and therefore no real personal sacrifice, sir," he returns with sober equanimity.

Every ear perks toward the command chair, but he pretends to not notice.

The flush returns to the captain's face. "Oh?"

"Indeed, Captain."

"May I ask…why?" It is obviously a shameless need to hear some sort of reassurance after the scathing rebuke, but neither he nor a soul within hearing probably blames the young captain.

One eyebrow inclines gracefully, for he well knows what is being asked, and for a moment Kirk blushes as if ashamed of his foolishness.

He resists the urge to smile at the human's squirming, and merely offers a calm explanation before returning to his station.

"Because I was the seventeenth crewman, Captain."




The third time, it is the night after their first real tragedy. It had been no one's fault save the First Contact team, who three months previous were considerably lax in their surveys of the planet. The _Enterprise_ has only just started on her five-year mission, and it is truly regrettable that their first Second Contact mission should end in disaster due to nothing save a former team's negligence in reporting alien customs correctly.

It had not been Kirk's fault that they had lost four men this night – the first death casualties since Gary Mitchell's unfortunate execution and the murder of Lee Kelso, in their shakedown cruise – but the young captain is brooding over it just the same, he knows. He has chosen the more logical course of action to combat what could possibly be guilt if he permitted the sensation to take root; by engaging himself in a complete recalibration of the mineral spectro-dictalygraphs in Science Lab Two. The process takes about five hours to complete, and cannot be interrupted or all work will be lost, whereupon the process must be begun anew from the inception.

That does not, apparently, prevent him from being interrupted. Kirk's ability or determination in tracing him to his current location – at 0300 hours, no less – is surprising; the fact that the human has obviously not slept for even seconds this ship's night is not.

"Are you busy?" Kirk mumbles the rather pointless question (for obviously he is, very much so), and shuffles his feet nervously before plopping down into a nearby chair.

He makes no immediate answer, for he is uncertain what to say. To reply with the obvious "Quite" seems somewhat…rude, for he will not pretend ignorance of the Captain's feelings of guilt and recrimination (how can he, when the human is broadcasting both them and grief in a controlled but quite forceful manner?). To deny the truth, however, and in consequence be expected to cease his work, is certainly not logical. To reply in the affirmative and explain that he cannot stop his work or else be forced to begin again is the most logical and courteous course of action –

Why then does the look in the human's eyes make that decision seem…he can hear his mother's voice supplying the word _cold-hearted_?

He is not certain why he does it, and will spend much time later this day analyzing his actions and, more importantly, his motives, but he does know that foremost in his mind is this man's continual attempt to make him as comfortable aboard this ship as is possible for a non-human to be, and after so many obvious efforts from the man to respect his privacy, to intrude upon it at long last bespeaks of a deeper pain than solitude alone can cope with.

To watch another in pain is certainly not logical, he reasons, and stops feeding the algorithms into the computer at his elbow.

Three hours later, they have long since migrated to the nearby Observation Lounge, and their conversation has taken a twisting path to exactly nowhere, and in reality nothing ship's business-related. It is a novel experience, to simply make what humans refer to as "small talk," and hitherto he has had very little experience with the process, not seeing its value to society at all.

But somehow, the inanity of the aimless converse, which has ranged from the theory of simultaneous parallel universes all the way to how terrible the root beer is from the Officers' Mess selector, seems to calm the captain in some inexplicable fashion; and he somehow comes to think, as the human smiles gratefully and takes his leave around 0700 hours, that the man only wanted to stop being _captain_ for a few hours.

When Kirk walks onto the Bridge promptly at 0900, bright-eyed and confident despite a complete lack of sleep, he is sure of it.

When, just after 0100 the next morning, he walks back into Science Lab Two to find the same human sound asleep on the work table, and the interrupted calibrations he had put off completely finished and tweaked in a manner he never would have thought of, he only raises an eyebrow at the human's perception, and then locks the door against any gamma-shift crewmen discovering his captain in such a vulnerable, if somewhat…endearing, position.

Also, he has no desire for his fellow scientists to see him methodically taking the contents of a nearby cabinet apart in search of a thermal blanket for his foolish commanding officer.




The fourth time, Leonard McCoy can hardly perform his duties, so hysterically is the man laughing – he compares the human to a Terran hyena, and the similarities are striking – at Jim's predicament.

The young captain has, in this first year aboard, narrowly escaped death and serious injury a total of fifty-one times. Twenty-four of those he has escaped due to quick action by his Security men, eight times by sheer lucky happenstance, and the remaining nineteen times due to Spock himself (sometimes literally) yanking the man out of more trouble than any other human of his acquaintance is able to attract.

Some of these situations are natural disasters, some injuries in the line of duty and off, and a few quite serious illnesses; it seems the young man almost enjoys seeing how close to death's precipice he can tread without falling over the edge, much to his crew's dismay (save on those occasions, quite frequently, when his rash actions save the lives of said crew).

He recounts this now more in an effort to keep his hands from wrapping around the scrawny neck of their Chief Medical Officer, than for any real purpose save to point out that after so many close experiences with life-threatening illnesses and injuries which the captain has borne in suffering silence, this new malady has the man complaining, moaning, actually sniveling, and generally acting as a very cranky human child.

It only makes matters worse that their chief ship's surgeon is currently doubled over laughing, as another bout of the cursed affliction reverberates through the room, startling a passing nurse into a soft giggle of dubious sympathy.

"Bones!" the Captain yowls, pleads from around his seventh hiccup in the last five minutes. "If you love me _do_ something!"

"Besides to heartlessly vent your amusement at another's misfortune in such an obnoxious and unprofessional manner, Doctor," he feels compelled to clarify, as the man shows no signs of ceasing his snickering.

Jim suddenly hiccups again, a miserable sound if he ever heard one, and promptly moans, clutching his chest in a not-entirely-unwarranted, theatrical gesture. "Bones! You have to have something for them, for pity's sake!"

"Jim, there's nothing I can give you except all the old-fashioned remedies," the CMO is chortling, and by now he knows the physician well enough to see that the man is laughing at the Captain's petulant whining rather than the poor human's medical difficulties. "Have you tried drinking a glass of water?"

"Y – hic! – yes."

"Obviously unhelpful," he interjects politely.

The physician glares at him, and Jim's snort of laughter turns into a very wet, and very _loud_ hiccup, which elicits a wince from all within earshot.

"Scotty tried jumping down from a Jefferies tube onto me to scare me, and holding my breath nearly made me break a rib. Pinching myself hard didn't work, and I tried standing on my head with my fingers crossed and my feet touching each other –"

McCoy blinks. "I've never heard that one before, Jim."

The captain scowls, not at all good-naturedly, and he wonders momentarily at the phenomenon; it seems as if all the warmth and light in the room has suddenly vanished into a black hole of sorts. Fascinating.

"Chekov suggested it. Did you know it was first invented as a hiccup remedy _somewhere in_ _Moscow_ , Bones?" Kirk mutters with a glacial glare. "I swear, if I hear one more helpful suggestion on my Bridge – ohhh," the human moans in anticipation, and Spock watches with fascinated attention as his face contorts into interesting grimaces, "… please please please no – HIC!" the man breaks off with a pitiful whimper, swearing once the ordeal is over with. "Bones, do something! I can't even be on duty, they're so bad!"

"Indeed, he was quite distracting," he adds his voice to the captain's plaintive one, but only receives a glare from Kirk.

" _Et tu_ , Spock?"

_Note to self: James T. Kirk will fight off a boarding party of renegade Klingons and cheerfully bleed out with a smile on his own Bridge, but the man misplaces his sense of humor entirely when the attack is **hiccups**._

A raucous HIC followed by a small whimper brings his attention back to the miserable man sitting hunched on the bio-bed. McCoy is apparently worthless, and so it falls to him to alleviate the human's unfortunate affliction, if he can.

"Captain, perhaps I might be of more assistance than your obviously incompetent Chief Medical Officer?" he observes, moving over toward the bed.

He is prepared to dodge the med-scanner McCoy threatens half-heartedly to hurl at his cranium, but the physician apparently believes the equipment too valuable to risk damaging, for he merely snarls something rather anatomically impossible under his breath and goes back to his work after giving Kirk's shoulder a commiserating pat.

Kirk is looking at him with skepticism. "How?"

"The symptoms can be alleviated via precise muscle control," he explains. "That is the reason Vulcans are immune to the affliction; we are simply able to control the symptoms, whereas humans are at the mercy of their own bodies."

"Yeah, okay, but how does that help me get rid of the darn things?" the human grumbles, before suddenly inhaling and holding his breath for the space of six-point-three seconds; whereupon a sudden spasm ruptures his compressed lips and the resultant hiccup is even louder than the last.

He hears McCoy's stylus _skritch_ on his PADD, no doubt from cringing at the sound, and he hastens to continue before either of the humans can, as they say, "go at it" again. "Sir, if you will permit me?" he inquires, reaching for the gold sleeve.

Kirk wriggles backward, holding up both hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa – I appreciate the offer, Spock, but you're not messing around in my head just to get rid of hiccups!"

He resists the urge to sigh, and merely continues, but keeps his hand upraised. "I have no intention of, as you put it, 'messing around in your head'," he informs the man, and sees Kirk relax slightly. "I merely propose implanting a small mental suggestion over the appropriate nerve impulses to control your muscle reflexes. It will take but a moment, and the symptoms will subside within twenty seconds."

One golden eyebrow arches, and he wonders distractedly if the human picked up the habit from him. "Mm…okay, if you really think it'll work," Kirk finally grunts, squirming back into a sitting position with one arm pressed against his stomach, as if trying to quell the spasms. "I'm desperate enough to try anything, now. I have a call with Admiral Cartwright in fifteen minutes and I cannot be doing this still."

The process is relatively simple; he makes the mental suggestion, and waits for it to take effect. In the process, another hiccup builds in the poor human's diaphragm, and he carefully eases the pressure of the spasm while the muscles reluctantly begin to obey their new command.

Thirty seconds later, the captain is back to his beaming, cheerful self. Kirk knows better than to shake his hand, but the gratitude evident in his eyes makes physical gestures unnecessary. He inclines his head to accept the thanks in the spirit in which they are given –

And hiccups.

He is aware that his eyes widen before he can control the surprised reaction, and both Kirk and McCoy stare at him.

Then he sees that particular slow, wicked smile begin to spread over the captain's face – the one that spells nothing good for whoever meets its blinding force – and he curses his human blood for betraying him in such an undignified manner.

But he is surprised, and grateful, when Jim only pats him on the shoulder in sympathy, and suggests they eat dinner in his quarters rather than Officers' Mess.

Granted, McCoy never lets him hear the end of it.




The fifth time, it is early winter in the twentieth century, unfortunately for both of them. They had formed a routine the first week and it is still in effect; he sleeps the first three hours of the night, then rises to work on their only hope of discovering McCoy's damage, while Jim will doze for another three hours and then do the earliest morning chores for Miss Keeler. It is certainly not ideal, especially as their room is drafty, growing increasingly chilly; and the walls are paper-thin, making restful sleep nearly impossible.

Several times in the last week he has woken to find his captain half-dozing and shivering on his bed underneath nothing more than his short overcoat, having placed both blankets over his subordinate while he slept, knowing that Spock reacted poorly to cooler temperatures. While such an unselfish action is highly illogical, as Kirk's possibly developing pneumonia is not an attractive prospect, either personally or to their mission, it has become an endearing routine as well if he will admit as much to himself. He has a habit now of waking in the dawn-light, whereupon he vents a very human sigh since no one can hear him, resists the urge to cuff the human upside the head as McCoy so loves to do when exasperated, and replaces both blankets over the young human before beginning work again on the tricorder.

However, though Jim wryly jokes about the horrendous timing of McCoy's changes to history and about the fact that they have been spoiled with environmental control units aboard ship, it does nothing to change the weather, which is damp, chilly, and growing more miserable by the day. He notices this most when he wakes the eighth morning to find his sensitive fingers stiff, cramped, and taking entirely too long to regain their mobility in the morning frost.

Jim wakes when he does this miserable dawn; and after a burst of colorful swearing at McCoy, the cold, his inadequate clothing, and their predicament in general, the captain heads over to the mission at 2:00 in the morning, earth standard time, simply because at least it is warmer there than in their apartment.

Because of this, when Jim apparently makes a habit of rising when he does and leaving the boarding house, he thinks no more about the matter.

Not, at least, until one morning soon after the shops of business have opened on their street (his superior hearing can, to his disgust, pick up the sounds of people bustling about, that is how thin the walls are in this dingy room). He is just finding a stopping point in his circuit-fusing so that he can return to the mission to do his share of their daily work, when Jim returns unexpectedly, shivering and blowing on his hands to warm them.

"Captain," he greets the human, standing in preparation to leave. He does not need to don his coat and hat, as he has been wearing them nearly twenty-four hours a day for the last three days. "I had thought you were at the mission."

"I have been, but j-just until the shops opened," Kirk returns, the words tripping slightly as his teeth chatter. He reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws a small, soft package wrapped in slightly wrinkled brown paper. "Here, I got you something…thought you might need them," he adds unexpectedly, tossing the parcel across the work table.

Raising an eyebrow at the unanticipated gift, he curiously opens the parcel by breaking the string surrounding it, and withdraws a pair of soft, woolen gloves; obviously not brand-new, but with no holes or worn places. They are a cobalt-blue color, with a reinforced sueded grip upon the palm for added protection, and a curious pocket-like attachment covers the open fingertips.

"I should have thought of it earlier," Kirk is saying, though he is not exactly listening, simply staring at the gloves in an effort to comprehend where Jim could have found the money to make such a purchase in this strained economy. "I can't believe I didn't…I mean you have to take care of your hands, right, because of all that stuff you Vulcans do with them, all those extra nerve endings and so on? And look," the human continues, oblivious to all else, and indicates the glove-tips. "The cover on the end of the fingers here comes off, so you can leave your fingertips free to work on this stuff but still keep your hands warm. Sort of…like a mitten and glove combination, y'know? I saw them last week in what they call a 'thrift shop' here, but with paying for all this…" Kirk indicated the machinery with a deploring gesture. "Took a while for me to scrounge up enough extra work to pay for them, or you'd have had them five days ago. I'm sorry about that, Spock, but I couldn't just steal them from somebody who needed them..."

He blinks in utter stupefaction, for he cannot for the life of him see what the man is apologizing for. Then a secondary realization flashes through his mind, and he reassesses the human's appearance; he had thought the lack of sleep and cold alone were responsible for Kirk's exhaustion before the day even started most mornings, but now he can see that the human has no doubt been working during those hours he is absent from their room, not simply keeping warm at the mission. Starship captains are, while well-trained and fit, not accustomed to working twelve and fourteen-hour days of manual labor.

And this man had done it solely for the sake of his hands.

He realizes belatedly that he is shaking his head in the wonder of it, and Kirk is peering at him strangely. "They do fit, right?" the human asks worriedly, rubbing one knuckle over his chin in a familiar gesture. "They were a little snug on me but I know your fingers are thinner than mine…and that's the only pair they had that didn't have holes or else wouldn't have taken me another week to earn the money for…"

Still marveling at the incredible gift, he slips the articles on, and breathes a small sigh as the welcome warmth envelopes his sensitive hands and fingers. After so many numbing mornings spent in futilely trying to regulate his core temperature enough to keep his dexterity at peak efficiency, he is unashamedly content now – pleasure, while a human emotion, cannot be denied in these circumstances.

"They fit perfectly. Thank you, Jim," he finally finds the voice to reply softly, and feels a warmth spread deep inside his upper abdomen despite the chill, as the human fairly glows with pleasure at the sound of his name rather than his title, for the first instance in these tense days spent trapped in time.




The last time, it is Christmas Eve, Terran calendar. With the exception of himself and a few dozen others, the _Enterprise_ crew complement is nearly entirely of Earth origin and as such places much stock in the celebration of the winter holidays: primarily, Solstice, Christmas and Hanukkah. This is, for many of the younger ensigns, the first of their holiday seasons spent in space; and even for those more seasoned crewmen, according to what he has heard, the idea of being hundreds of lightyears away from their homes can make the season a lonely time.

Vulcans do not celebrate the Terran winter holidays, obviously, though he has no objections to them; anything that promotes a spirit of peace in a chaotic world is a worthy venture. His mother always made a point of observing a few small traditions on Christmas Eve, as she was accustomed to celebrating it when she lived on Terra. However, he has no desire to while the night away with human company, drinking synthetically (or genuinely) alcoholic beverages and exchanging pointless tokens with those humans with whom he serves at the yearly holiday gathering. He has never been asked if he will attend whatever festivities occur on board, for he has made his intentions regarding social interaction perfectly clear.

He is somewhat surprised, therefore, when the new captain asks him with undue eagerness if he's going to be coming to the 'party' the officers are apparently hosting for the lower decks in Rec Rooms Six and Seven.

Kirk's eyes are sparkling at his sudden discomfiture, turning that shade of golden-green that they revert to when he laughs, and Spock declines as politely as he can, explaining that he has for many years placed most ship's functions on autopilot and then remained on the Bridge as the sole crew member on duty, so that the humans aboard may be free to go about their festivities.

Kirk looks at him strangely, and he feels the disgracefully human urge to squirm under the intense scrutiny; the captain appears to be gauging his truthfulness or his motives, one. But, to his surprise – and gratitude – the man apparently accepts his explanation and to his relief does not attempt to pressure him into accepting the invitation to the holiday merry-making. The captain is an intense man, forward, overt in his offers of friendship; but Jim has never demanded from him more than he is capable of giving, and he is not unaware of the fact.

The shifts end one by one, each dismissing several more crewmen, and finally the captain is the last to leave. Kirk hands him the Bridge, flashes him a small smile before the lift doors close, and then all is quiet.

He places most systems aboard on auto, and double-checks the auto-pilot at the navigation console before seating himself at the front console to look out at the peacefully brilliant array of stars. He spends a quiet two hours immersed in a recent treatise on xenomedicine field triage techniques, and only looks up every half-hour or so to check the systems aboard.

It is with some surprise, therefore, that he hears the turbolift door hiss open behind him, and a moment later a familiar figure slouches easily into Ensign Chekov's chair beside his at the navigation console.

Puzzled, he looks over at the Captain, who is leaning back with his feet stretched out before him and covering a yawn with the back of his hand. "Captain?"

"Mmhm, party's breaking up now, Spock…whatchoo doing?"

The words are slightly slurred, though not enough that he suspects inebriation – more probably exhaustion from the grueling events of the last few weeks and the trauma of losing both Edith Keeler and Sam Kirk in the space of two months.

He marks his place in the treatise and sets the reading-PADD aside on the console. "I was, I believe you humans call it 'catching up' on recent xenomedical discoveries," he informs the man, wondering what the human is doing here instead of with his friends or in his bed.

Kirk nods in a drowsy attempt to show that he is at least listening. "I missed you down there," is the next statement, made casually and without melodramatic emphasis; more a simple statement of fact. Nonetheless, he is incredulous and it must show on his features, for the human smiles at him. "That surprises you, Mr. Spock?"

"Somewhat," he admits, for prevarication is pointless especially with this particular human. "I fail to see how one is able to notice the absence of what was not present in the first place."

"Ah, but you see there was an absence," Kirk informs him, his voice dropping to a quieter, more private tone – as if respecting his privacy even though there is no one who could possibly hear. "I don't like the idea of leaving one of my friends all by himself on Christmas Eve, even if he doesn't celebrate the holiday. On Earth, this is a time for family and friends to be together. Even the ones who don’t actually _like_ the holiday. Awkward family gatherings are practically a tradition."

 _Family. Friendship_. The word he has come to confess under the influence of alien viruses, the feelings he still will not admit to harboring toward this exceptional being, the evenings spent close – so close! – to being in harmony with himself due to Jim's unconditional acceptance and company…but he is unable to reciprocate such human affection as this man offers him freely, and that is a crime of the highest despicability.

Kirk is watching him in close but not too personal examination, and he now leans over. "Why does that surprise you, Spock? I know your people do not make friendships easily, but there are documented instances even between Vulcans, for it is nothing to be ashamed of. Why do you hesitate to accept that?"

"I do not hesitate to accept…your friendship for me, Jim," he responds slowly, for in the silence of the Bridge he knows that the human will be pleased that he drops the title of 'Captain'. "I…merely doubt the wisdom of it."

"You're afraid you're going to become too emotional, too un-Vulcan, if you let yourself go with us," Kirk murmurs, but his voice is not pitying, only understanding. "I can understand that."

"That is not truly why," he protests, for he cannot allow the untruth to remain without explanation. "I…merely know that I am incapable of returning the…affection, the public displays that humans find necessary in maintaining close and friendly relationships. It is hardly fair to enter into such when one party is incapable of responding in kind."

Kirk's eyes are wider than Chekov's were last week when the young man had accidentally knocked his commanding officer over on the Bridge, hurrying toward his station after being barely on time one morning. "Spock…are you serious?" the human finally bursts out, and he would swear that that is actual anger beginning to burn in the back of the captain's eyes.

"Affirmative," is his wary reply, and stiff with tension for he has no idea what has Kirk so upset.

"Spock…Spock, look at me," Jim asks, more gently, as he has moved his gaze to check the instruments before him (though they needed no checking). When he does so, Kirk continues with earnestness. "Spock, I don't know who's been talking to you about what a friendship – human or otherwise – entails, but a big part of it is accepting the other person the way they are. Wanting someone to change who they are just for you? Is incredibly selfish. And I grant you, we humans can certainly be that; but I’d like to think you know me better.”

Admittedly, his experience in the matter has been quite limited, and those few instances where he made the attempt were highly regrettable, both in the Academy and on board this ship in past years. Can he possibly be right?

Kirk leans forward, and before he can shift away the man has laid cautious fingers lightly on the back of his hand. It is the first time he can remember the man instigating physical contact, so scrupulously careful has he been to give his First the personal space the Vulcan wishes.

Through the touch he can sense amusement and affection; fond exasperation; deeply-seated respect mingled slightly with awe; and above all, acceptance – and the combination of them all is enough to momentarily steal his speech. And then the fingers are gone, withdrawn before the emotions can become uncomfortable or invasive, and he somehow finds himself bereft, missing the contact.

Kirk smiles at him, a warm and golden ray of light that illuminates the Bridge around them. "Spock, you may be half-human, but you've chosen to be Vulcan. I'll never ask you to change that. If you did, then you wouldn't be _you_." The human says the word as if it is something special, despite being only an impersonal pronoun, and he meets the amused gaze with frank mystification. "I don't know where you got the idea that you have to go around hugging me, for example, in order to be categorized as friend," Kirk adds with an impish twinkle at the atrociously inappropriate mental image, "but you don't have to do anything but be _yourself_ in order to be one of mine."

He has no idea how to counter that illogical sentiment; but again, the captain surprises him by not proceeding to further explain or even ask for a response from him. Jim only sits back in the ensign's chair, and begins watching the stars streak past them in brilliant white and blue eddies.

It is only after two hours of silence that he realizes this is the first holiday since leaving Vulcan that he has not spent entirely alone; and what is more, he finds the quiet companionship of this remarkable human to be quite…agreeable.

Granted, when sometime during the night Kirk falls asleep, and narrowly avoids piloting them directly into a nearby asteroid belt when his nose hits the console’s autopilot-override, he revises that opinion.


End file.
